Trashy Chic: A Bertie Mallowan Mystery

By Cathy Lubenski

Reporter Bertie Mallowan has drifted away from hard news stories and into the shallows of "fluff" features, the kind you find buried in the back of the newspaper. But when she gets the chance to interview greedy, nasty Robert Bellingham, the king of must-have luxury items for the rich of Southern California, she thinks her career is back on track. Bellingham, she learns, has not only made a lot of money, but he’s got a lot of enemies, too. Two days after Bertie's interview, Bellingham's body is found on the floor of the foyer in the family mansion; someone has aerated his skull with the stereotypical blunt object. Thanks to her interview, Bertie has inside information about the life and times of a rich and powerful murder victim and is thrust into a big story again.

PRAISE FOR “TRASHY CHIC” and Cathy Lubenski
"What do a certain Mennonite innkeeper, and a reporter named Bertie Mallowan, have in common? Could it be that they are both highly intelligent women with a wry take on life, or could it possibly be that both possess tongues capable of slicing Swiss cheese? This is a surefire recipe for a winner in my book! Trashy Chic is pure gold." -- Tamar Myers, author of the Pennsylvania Dutch Mysteries and The Headhunter’s Daughter
“Don’t miss this utterly delightful mystery. Cathy Lubenski has a light but sharp touch, a wonderful eye for human types and human foibles, and she’s a natural entertainer. “Trashy Chic” has a perfect humor-to-heart ratio. Bravo!”--T. Jefferson Parker, New York Times bestselling author of The Jaguar and The Border Lords
“Trashy Chic is fast and funny. Enjoy!” -- Parnell Hall, author of Caper

• Language: English
• Publisher: Riverdale Avenue Books
• Release date: Mar 26, 2015
• ISBN: 9781626011717

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Robert Bellingham stared at the ceiling. He’d never looked at it before, but as ceilings went, this one was pretty nice. A smooth vaulted arch, no cracks or cobwebs. He didn’t like the color, though … a bright orange that his interior decorator had convinced him was the must-have color this season.

He was flat on his back on the marble floor of the foyer in his Bel Air mansion. He’d never been in that position before which is why, he supposed, he’d never noticed the ceiling. Robert Bellingham was dying. He didn’t realize it yet because, although he was cunning, he wasn’t very smart. He’d made a fortune by playing to the vanity of the rich and famous, tantalizing them with things that no one else had and charging them a fortune for them. That had made him more than enough money to buy the mansion with the foyer with the floor on which he was dying.

It had also earned him hatred, fear, envy, and anger.

An ice-pond glaze was sliding over Robert Bellingham’s eyes; his lined face was turning a faint blueberry. The pool of bright red blood that had seeped from the crater in his skull was congealing on the Italian marble floor.

As he stared at the ceiling of his pumpkin-coach foyer, he thought, I hate orange, and died.

***

The wind sighed through the open front door of the Bellingham mansion and stirred the crystal chandelier into tinkling song. A fanciful stranger might have imagined the noise was made by Robert’s soul floating upward to heaven.

Anyone who knew him knew better.

The rising sun created a golden aura around the policemen and women milling on the emerald green lawn in front of the mansion where Robert Bellingham lay, still glaring at the orange ceiling.

Inside, homicide detectives and forensic technicians were engaged in an elaborate minuet around the body, which was now stiff enough to iron clothes on.

As a tall plain-clothes detective who looked startlingly like Harrison Ford exited the foyer and pointed, several cops began clotting around a muscular blond young man in jeans, T-shirt and red polka-dotted sneakers.

You’re the gardener? the detective asked him.

Yes, I’m John Gardener, the gardener.

You’re the gardener and your name is Gardener? The detective looked unhappy at being confused. Uh … whatever—we need your shoes.

As if pulled by the same invisible string, seven heads looked down at the shoes that weren’t polka-dotted but splotched with red bloodstains.

Am I under arrest? Gardener-the-gardener asked, then suddenly bolted through a gap in the blue uniforms and started running toward the street. A burly cop made a flying tackle and

brought him down hard.

It took two cops holding his arms, and Harrison Ford riding his kicking legs like a humping dog to get the shoes off. The usually taciturn detective, now sweaty and rumpled, startled everyone by waving the sneakers over his head like a war scalp and shouting, Read ’im his rights and then book this mother.

CHAPTER TWO

Bertie Mallowan took the circular route through the newsroom to her desk in the features section of one of the city’s largest newspapers. She varied her path every day to avoid any management types who might want to interact with her against her will. Over the years she’d learned the hard way that management always meant trouble or more work. It was just easier to walk a few extra miles every day.

Her desk was its usual mess of papers, cups with old coffee, and Ho-Ho crumbs, her current junk food of choice.

She dropped into her chair and started the tedious process of logging on to her computer. The obscenely young techies, useless when real help was needed, had made each computer a fortress that needed several passwords to break into.

Bertie’s passwords were whatever mildly vulgar or insulting term she could think of. She signed in with doodoo, moved on to bozos and finally broke through the last barrier with weewee. Everyone knew the techies snooped through the computers, and it amused her to think of them typing weewee to get into hers.

As the screen flashed into light, several interoffice messages popped up. Three, all marked urgent, were from metro editor Don Crotty:

Please see me when you get in this morning.

I need to talk with you when you arrive.

I’m in my office, get in here as soon as possible.

Yikes! she thought, what’s that all about?

And three were from Shawn Fuchs, her boyfriend?... lover?... boytoy? Shawn, the paper’s crime reporter, was 32, good looking, 10 years younger than her, and an object of desire to his female (and some male) colleagues.

She was pleased and embarrassed that they were... in love?... having an affair?... indulging in occasional hot, sweaty monkey sex?

The relationship was a question mark in all aspects, but she enjoyed feeling like a shorter, plumper, blonder, schlumpier version of Demi Moore.

Bertie took the long way to Shawn’s desk, avoiding several editors lurking in the shadows, to see if he knew why she was suddenly in demand. He was bent over his computer keyboard, banging the keys so hard his desk shook. His dark hair hung over his forehead and his plaid tie was loose around the collar of his pale pink button-down shirt. An old tweed jacket was draped across the back of his chair, and his blue jeans were well-worn. Bertie drew in a sharp breath … the Dustin Hoffman dress code in All the President’s Men.

Wassup? she asked. And why does Crotchy want to see me?

Crotty couldn’t have had a more unfortunate last name. Bertie was willing to bet it had made him a target from the first time he’d worn underwear capable of producing a wedgie. Put him in a newsroom of jaded reporters and he was fair game. Even worse, he bore an uncanny resemblance to hamburger spokesclown Ronald McDonald with his red hair, lanky build and abnormally wide mouth—it was really hard not to think of him as a target.

Robert Bellingham was murdered last night. Didn’t you just interview him? You were probably the last reporter to talk to him before he was killed, Shawn said, looking up from the computer screen.

Oh, my God, what happened?

He has a huge hole in his head, compliments of the ever-popular blunt object.

I can’t believe it. I interviewed him a couple of days ago at the mansion, and he was fine. Creepy but fine. We talked about his business—you know, all that goofy stuff that rich people just love.

Shock seasoned with a tiny pinch of pleasure settled on Bertie—she was suddenly hot stuff, thanks to Robert Bellingham and his newly aerated head.

I’m doing an A1 on the murder. How about giving me a couple of quotes and some idea of what he was like. I need something to flesh the guy out.

Bertie opened her mouth, then snapped it shut. Since murder never went out of style, Shawn was the paper’s front-page darling. The last time she’d seen her byline out front was a few years ago when Antiques Roadshow came to town and caused a riot. Someone had jumped in front of a mile-long line of people waiting to get in to the taping and had been beaten with his own moth-eaten moose head.

Ummmm, she said, stalling, lemme see what Don wants first. She bolted before he could say anything more.

Robert Bellingham … murdered! Now there was a guy who probably had a lot of people gunning for him. He’d made his money by figuring out that the rich and insecure of Southern California wanted to be the first with the latest, the most expensive and the most exclusive of everything. He sold his limited editions to them and was right there to lure them with more.

He’d planted himself in Southern California in the early ‘80s at the beginning of the shabby chic trend. He’d never understood why rich people wanted stuff that looked like it was straight from the dump, but he was willing to make money helping them get it.

He found old hotels and motels that were going out of business, bought up their inventories of used linens and furniture and resold them for 10 times the price he’d paid for them. His exclusive accessories were picked up at garage sales and thrift stores.

At the time of his murder at 82, he’d branched out into his own line of hard-to-find items.

There was the stationery made from the recycled cereal boxes of Tibetan monks. (Who knew the lamas were partial to Cheerios?) And mink coats pre-streaked with red for women who craved fur, but feared paint-slinging PETA kamikazes.

Bellingham’s stuff was weird, but it sold big time to people with more money than brains—or, as he often said, most of Southern California.

For once, Bertie took the direct route through the maze of cubicles piled with tottering mountains of old newspapers and books to Crotty’s wood-paneled office. He was barking orders into the phone while two people waited to talk to him. It was impressive, except for his red hair,

which was standing straight up in electrified clumps and patches.

When he saw her, he hung up the phone, ordered the two waiting for him out of the office, and waved her into a chair.

Bertie, he said cordially, I hear you talked to Bellingham the other day. I need you to help Shawn with his page one. Throw a couple of quotes and some background his way. I can’t believe you talked to the man right before he bought it … good job. He turned back to his computer, dismissing her abruptly.

But Bertie was experiencing something she hadn’t felt in a long time: The rush of adrenalin that reporters craved, savored, and hustled stories for. I want to write my own story, Don. A full sidebar about the guy and what he was like will sell better than a few lines in Shawn’s story.

Shock appeared on Crotty’s face. He’d always dismissed Bertie as a writer of women’s page stuff and her stand was the last thing he expected.

This is Shawn’s beat, Bertie. I want him to write the story... with your notes. You can write a follow-up for Sunday features.

She pushed her chair back and stood. I’ll have my story to you by 2. You’ll love it, seriously, it’ll be great.

Bertie had scared herself with this rare show of backbone. She hustled out while his jaw was still dragging against his shirt front. She heard his voice following her across the newsroom, and although she couldn’t hear him well, it sounded like You’re fired.

CHAPTER THREE

The next day, as Bertie drove down palm-lined streets on her way to the Bellingham mansion, she could see her story on the papers prominently displayed at newsstand kiosks. It was below Shawn’s murder story, but it was still page one. After pointing out every misplaced comma and hyphen, Crotty had been happy with it. And when she’d told him she might be able to get back into the mansion again, she thought he might have a major problem involving his digestive tract and his expensive trousers.

To get the first interview, Bertie had promised Bellingham’s PR Nazis that she’d flog her ovaries into hyperdrive to deliver a first-born on demand. This time, though, she called straight through to the mansion and was invited over by GiGi, Bellingham’s widow. Bertie had memorized the number off one of the house phones when she was there before; she just loved having a job where sneakiness was a valued personality trait.

GiGi had said the family was happy with her story, and Bertie was sure it was because she’d focused on what a jolly bastard Bellingham had been, instead of how he’d grabbed her ass when she bent over to pick up the pen he’d deliberately dropped. Bertie had been astounded at the cheesiness of it. With his money, she thought, he could’ve hired a team of highly skilled teenage boys to think up better stuff than that.

Bertie pulled up the tree-lined driveway to the front door where a woman waited for her. It wasn’t GiGi, who was an expensively mummified 50; this woman was in her late 20s or early 30s, Bertie guessed. She was odd-looking with dull brown hair hanging limply around a Pillsbury Dough Boy face. Her body was lumpy, like a bag full of dirty laundry, and she was wearing a dress that reminded Bertie of one her mother had made her wear in the first grade that had gotten her beaten up.

Hello, she called to the lump as she got out of her car.

Nothing.

Hi, I’m Bertie Mallowan. GiGi invited me over.

The woman disappeared into the house, leaving the door open. Bertie tentatively stuck her head into the foyer and hallooooed into the emptiness. GiGi, dressed in a sleek peach-colored sheath with matching high heels that pushed her into a tippy-toed teeter, minced into the foyer.

Come in, come in. Hello, Bertie, it’s so nice to see you again.

Bertie felt like she’d arrived just in time for a tea party instead of a post-murder interview with the grieving widow. Hello, Mrs. Bellingham, I’m so sorry for your loss.

A brief look of surprise passed over GiGi’s face—should Bertie remind her about her husband’s death?—but then GiGi pulled a mask of grief over her features.

Thank you for your kindness. Our sorrow is as big as Robert’s heart was, bless him. This is where he died, you know.

GiGi and Bertie looked solemnly at the floor for so long that Bertie wondered if she was expected to drop to her knees for a quick Hail Mary.

OK, let’s have some coffee and chat, GiGi said cheerfully.

As she started out of the foyer, Bertie stopped abruptly at a statue of the Thinker—it was the same hunched figure with bent arm and hand on chin, but with Robert Bellingham’s face.

Excellent likeness of Robert, don’t you think? GiGi said, stopping as well. This is one of our New offerings. We’ll reproduce any statue with the customer’s face on it. One of the biggest celebs in Hollywood has Venus de Milo with her face. She insisted we leave the arms on, but one of her adorable little boys knocked it over and the arms just snapped right off, so now it’s OK.

GiGi continued down a long hallway, stopping to point out an oddly textured scarf draped over a settee in one of the small, side rooms. That’s another of our new products. The customers supply fur from their darling pets and we get it knitted into whatever they’d like. One extremely rich young woman whose name you’d recognize, ordered a scarf just like that made with fur from her darling Chihuahua.

A short, almost portly man in his 40s with a red face and thinning dark hair bustled into the hallway, obviously headed somewhere in a hurry. He would’ve been handsome, except for the 30 extra pounds he was carrying and an expression that made him look as if someone had stolen his lollipop only half-sucked. His expensive suit did little to hide his weight.

Oh, R2, please stop for a moment and meet Bertie Mallowan. She wrote that wonderful story about your father in today’s paper, GiGi said.

The man halted, his impatience plainly showing. Hello, how do you do? he said, but didn’t offer to shake hands. I’m Robert Bellingham II, he said. He turned to his stepmother and said, Really, GiGi, I think we can drop the R2 now that father is dead, don’t you?

But I always think of you as R2, it’s so appropriate, GiGi said silkily as the man reddened.

He shot her a dark look then rushed out. The swish-swish sound made by his expensively clad thighs rubbing together provided a sound track for his departure.

He’s been called R2 ever since he was born, GiGi said. Her tone was one of girlfriends sharing an amusing story. "Long before my time as Mrs. Robert Bellingham, of course. The name fit, given that he’s the second Robert Bellingham, but after ‘Star Wars’ came out I’m afraid R1 had a little bit of fun with his resemblance to R2, you know, the stubby little robot? R1 had

such a sense of humor. He’d sneak up behind R2 and make those funny robot noises: grbbll bllahhh drrrr uhhhhh, glooble, glooble." Bertie jumped, startled by the sounds emanating from this chic woman.

I’m afraid R2 would get quite upset about it. He used to cry when he was younger, then as he got older he got very angry about it. So sensitive … his father was just having a little bit of fun.

Angry, huh? Bertie could understand why. But how angry? Angry enough to off his old man?

GiGi swanked her way to a small, sunny room with French doors leading to a lush garden.

You know, Bertie, GiGi said after they’d settled onto white wicker chairs, the family was really pleased that you didn’t exploit the situation like that horrible man, Shawn Fuchs, did in his story.

She pronounced it Fucks instead of Fyooks. Bertie snickered.

He made Robert look like a grasping greedy man, and the rest of us not much better. You were really very kind to my poor Robert given the situation.

GiGi poured coffee out of a china pot that was worth a